Post by Laura on Feb 12, 2006 17:02:43 GMT -6
a/n: I wrote a poem under this name back in 2003 and I just found it. I completely revised it ... it's basically a totally different poem. Just a little tid bit 
Beauty is not Alright
my hands are not for sale
yet successfully, we see this all the time
what my eyes don't cry
my scars make up from anger
her blood is blue like mine
stuck to her frame
corrupting her insides
she's nothing but flesh
and could she be anything special?
my lips are red like hers
and there's a heart caged inside my skeleton
but no different, I too get no appreciation.
and pollution is never easy to get rid of
but it's so easy to give in to it
never to look pretty, not a one to care
my hands freeze protesting in smog
a porcelain beauty is anything but
a mistake like me covered underneath
fifty dollars worth of make up
it's what I've come to believe
and her love is nothing but 10,000 copies
of a hard cover book sold in 10 minutes
from some famous author who we adore
yet deeply despise their fame and fortune
what we thought was right
was just a lie
and love is just a
stereotype.
put my life in danger
a ton of strangers will come to me
but when I'm lying restless on the street
reading poetry, they just keep walking
and knowledge,
what a concept,
what a complex
code for bullsh*t.
just for you, she will strip it down
thought of today, is it a teddy or a nightgown?
thoughts invade her body like liquor to a newborn
babies cry and no one cares to think of the afterlife
and will he f**k these thoughts right out of her, right out of me?
will he tear her down just like we do the air
spinning, just lightly sifting through the walls
dust, she is lust, I am a faucet in the garden preparing to unrust
and someday she will hold my hand
and speak those words
that I wasn't sold to her
just bought by love
Beauty is not Alright
my hands are not for sale
yet successfully, we see this all the time
what my eyes don't cry
my scars make up from anger
her blood is blue like mine
stuck to her frame
corrupting her insides
she's nothing but flesh
and could she be anything special?
my lips are red like hers
and there's a heart caged inside my skeleton
but no different, I too get no appreciation.
and pollution is never easy to get rid of
but it's so easy to give in to it
never to look pretty, not a one to care
my hands freeze protesting in smog
a porcelain beauty is anything but
a mistake like me covered underneath
fifty dollars worth of make up
it's what I've come to believe
and her love is nothing but 10,000 copies
of a hard cover book sold in 10 minutes
from some famous author who we adore
yet deeply despise their fame and fortune
what we thought was right
was just a lie
and love is just a
stereotype.
put my life in danger
a ton of strangers will come to me
but when I'm lying restless on the street
reading poetry, they just keep walking
and knowledge,
what a concept,
what a complex
code for bullsh*t.
just for you, she will strip it down
thought of today, is it a teddy or a nightgown?
thoughts invade her body like liquor to a newborn
babies cry and no one cares to think of the afterlife
and will he f**k these thoughts right out of her, right out of me?
will he tear her down just like we do the air
spinning, just lightly sifting through the walls
dust, she is lust, I am a faucet in the garden preparing to unrust
and someday she will hold my hand
and speak those words
that I wasn't sold to her
just bought by love
